“You know; the affair of the Rue de Provence,” said she simply.
“Ah! he has that in hand!” exclaimed Octave.
It was a scandal which was the talk of all Paris, quite a clandestine prostitution, young girls of fourteen procured for high personages. Clotilde added:
“Yes, it gives him a great deal of work. For a fortnight past all of his evenings have been taken up with it.”
“No doubt! for he too has the cure of souls,” murmured he, embarrassed by her clear glance.
“Well! sir, shall we begin?” resumed she. “You will excuse my importunity, will you not? And open your lungs, display all your powers, as Monsieur Duveyrier is not here. You, perhaps, heard him boast that he did not like music.”
She put such contempt into the words, that he thought it right to risk a faint laugh. Moreover, it was the sole bitter feeling which at times escaped her before other people with respect to her husband, when exasperated by his jokes on her piano, she who was strong enough to hide the hatred and the physical repulsion with which he inspired her.
“How can one help liking music?” remarked Octave with an air of ecstasy, so as to make himself agreeable.
Then she seated herself on the music-stool. A collection of old tunes was open on the piano. She had already selected an air out of “Zémire and Azor,” by Grétry. As the young man could only just manage to read his notes, she made him go through it first in a low voice. Then she played the prelude, and he sang the first verse.
“Perfect!” cried she with delight, “a tenor, there is not the least doubt of it, a tenor! Pray continue, sir.”